


A Squads Holdout

by Ignace_Karkasy7



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Astra Militarum | Imperial Guard (Warhammer 40.000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28003932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ignace_Karkasy7/pseuds/Ignace_Karkasy7
Summary: A Sergant looks over his squad of friends and commrades as the enemy closes in.
Kudos: 2





	A Squads Holdout

Sergeant Arido Gebol lowered his Las pistol as he cleanly dispatched another foul cultist. He and his squad had been fighting in the ruins of the city since daybreak and had been cut off from reinforcement and communication with their company. His men were tired and running low on supplies. He sighed as he raised his head to look at another group of pink clad cultists rounding the corner. Their rags and scraps of clothing covered in pink die, strange symbols and fluids the sergeant didn’t want to think about. Best not to look at the cultists themselves either. Between the chaotic mutations and intentional body modification well, he had seen hardened veterans of many a war vomit at such sites. 

The group of cultists only had a moment to recognise the squad's presence before a click was heard besides Gebol. The roar of a heavy bolter followed milliseconds afterwards. The massive inch wide bolts streamed out of the barrel. A few seconds later the mob of cultists had been reduced to a fine red mist. Gabol Shuddered as he realized that they had probably enjoyed their last moments. He looked over his men as they lowered their weapons. Those of the Jennian 381st Infantry regiment were dressed in grey flak armour, their turquoise fatigues peeking out between the gaps. Indeed the colors were a scheme commonly seen in their home system. A sort of connection that formed a bond between all in the system, be they citizen or soldier, flesh or machine. 

The men who wore the uniforms were grim, the prospect of them getting out alive today was growing thin. His squad were veterans of the recent conflict on the world of Hyelcex against dark eldar raiders. This itself had hardened them well despite their relative youth. Most were barely 20 years of age. Gebol at 28 felt old in comparison. Their experiences in the past had allowed them to weather the sites of battle fairly well. After all, the machinations of the dark eldar were worse than anything these minor cultists of slaanesh could dream of. Not for the first time, Gebol considered the futility of their situation. There was little chance of him and his squad making it back to friendly lines. Considering the fact that they had received no reinforcement and the vox was dead, it was likely that the rest of the assault had failed. 

He was just about to issue a fall back order, when a shout brought his eyes back to the street in front of them. At first he saw nothing but the dust of shattered rockcrete and broken hab blocks. He didn’t need to see anything though, he only needed to listen. Screams, hideous screams that rose in the air like vultures catching an updraft. Screams of untold pleasure and depravity that rippled down his spine like electricity. This mourning Gebol would have turned white at these screeches but now they only filled him with gloom. 

“Daemonettes!” He cried as he checked the charge on his laspistol and remaining fuel in his chain sword. The men around him readied themselves as well. Besides him he heard the solid chunk of the heavy bolter being charged. He spared a nod to the squads heavy weapons team, Private Hayden Phillips and Yanel Ulford. Both of them had been friends from childhood, growing up in a small agricultural settlement on Jenia II. Gebol, having been born in Hive Cimarron, knew little of the lives of farmers but the two had always brightened the squad's mood off the battlefield with their stories of home, and on it with their impeccable teamwork on the heavy weapon. 

Hayden noticed his nod. He shouted “Only two belts left sarg!” Gabol Grimased, now more than ever it was time to fall back, hordes of cultists and lesser demons chewed through ammo at a prodigious rate, sometimes literally. No time to think about that now, through the smoke he could make out the pinkish skin tones and massive claw arms of the approaching abominations. 

“Squad D!” yelled Gabol, “guns ready!” As one every man raised his M35 pattern lasgun. Next to him Hayden and Yanel crouched in preparation for firing. Nearby, Corporal Melvin Edrik leveled the squad's Plasma gun. The Corporal was the next oldest person in the squad at the age of 22. His skinny frame hailed from the Schola of the northern Hive of their home planet. Gabol had never been sure, and had never asked, why Melvin had chosen the guard as opposed to taking up a safer job in the hive. The plasma gun in his hands had seen better days, a full day of continuous usage had pushed it right to its limits. When issued the enginseer had recommended no more than 1 shot every 10-20 seconds and to swap out the plasma coils after 100 shots. The last coil replacement had been two months and 368 shots ago. Melvin had been carefully nursing his weapon along but it was only a matter of time until it failed. 

Gabol watched intently, his laspistol held before him. Despite the constant sounds of explosions, fire, and the screaming of the encroaching horde all seemed still and quiet as he measured the distance until effective range. 900, 800, 700, yards. He had ordered Hayden two hours ago to hold his fire until the rest of the squad opened up in order to preserve ammo despite the bolter having half again the rest of the squad's range. 500 yards. “Hold!” Gabol shouted. He could hear what the daemonettes were screaming now, not that he cared to listen. Despite the obvious Heresy he had heard too much about the prince of pleasure. 400 yards. “Now!” Gabols pistol was still useless but the rest of the squad opened fire. The slight zaps of las gun capacitors discharging combined with the woosh of flying plasma and the roar of the heavy bolter. 

Not being known for their armour, the first ranks of the demons were shredded, flayed skin and blood spattering those who followed them. This seemed to only invigorate the mass, and the charge turned into a frenzied dash to the squads position. Gabol had joined in firing too at this point. They were not hard to hit but their momentum would soon bring them into close combat with his men, an unwinnable fight. 

Next to him he heard a dreaded click. “Reloading!” Yelled Hayden as the last belt was cast over the gun. The sudden cessation of a large portion of the squad's fire power was enough to bring the daemonettes within striking distance of the guardsmen. Without the harsh noise of the heavy weapon their screams were all the more potent. Melvin yelped as he once more fired a blob of plasma at the oncoming horde. His gun was glowing far brighter than normal and by the way he held it, it was very hot. Melvin barely managed to toss the gun at the daemonettes before the built up heat and gases caused an explosion of heat and shrapnel. Melvin quickly bent down to pick up a fallen las gun from a previous squad. 

Gabol could hold no longer. “Fall back!” he commanded. He shouted to Hayden, “Leave the gun!” Hayden and Yanel nodded and grabbed their own lasguns as the squad ran through the ruined city. Despite losing over half their number the daemonettes showed no sign of caution or slowness as they pursued. Gabol began to pray. There was no way to call for help and little chance they could make it back to their own lines before they were overrun. Even as he sprinted over smashed rockcrete and though burning hab blocks his lips mumbled. “Oh Emperor, you who are greatest amongst men, you who guide all humanity, please save me.”

A shout. Gabol turned to see what it was but did not slow down. The squad's vox carrier, Private Taston, was pointing at the sky. Above them, through the spires of the city the atmosphere burned red orange with the light of a thousand fires and streaked with gray from a hundred plumes of smoke. Yet amongst those flew a spark. Several sparks. Those sparks turned into blazing comets as they streaked towards the ground. The side of the objects blazing from the heat of reentry. Gabol only had time to shout, “Get down!” before a sound like a hurricane was heard above him. Jets of flame poured from the retro thrusters of the drop pod as it thundered forward and crushed into the square behind him. Gabol picked himself up in time to see the Turquoise green doors of the pod fall open as the explosive bolts holding them in place detonated in a series of pops.

Out of the pod strode figures Gabol had seen only once before. A parade as a child, yet he could never forget those high forms. Their massive pauldrons and chestplate adorned with the holy aquila. The emperor had answered his prayers. He had sent his angels of death to their aid.


End file.
